


Sunlit Skin and Shadowed Scars

by lal nila syrin (lalnilasyrin)



Category: D N Angel, D.N. Angel, D.N.Angel, DN Angel, DNAngel, d. n. angel
Genre: Gen, Scars, college!daisuke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-23 11:37:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3766702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalnilasyrin/pseuds/lal%20nila%20syrin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Daisuke pulled the shirt up over his head, he felt the distinctive impression of being watched. Once his head was free from the fabric, he glanced over his shoulder. “What?”</p><p>Takeshi looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunlit Skin and Shadowed Scars

**Author's Note:**

> The summary and that part of the fic is a snippet by [Autumn](http://hiwatari-satoshi.tumblr.com/post/115447896502/as-daisuke-pulled-the-shirt-up-over-his-head-he).
> 
> This fic was inspired by an art collab [Autumn](http://hiwatari-satoshi.tumblr.com), [Jill](http://jilli-bean.tumblr.com), and [pianof](http://pianof.tumblr.com) from tumblr did, which can be found [here](http://pianofsketches.tumblr.com/post/115938552229/lal-nila-syrin-jilli-bean-i-finished-my-end-of)! Picture posted with permission.

The lighting was different in the city, Daisuke thought as he stared out the window of his studio apartment. The tall corporate were a dull gray lit with the white-pink of the bright afternoon light, and though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, somehow the haze of the city made up for that.

Unlike the quiet of Azumano, the sounds of dozens of cars in the streets, of motorcycles humming, of bikes ringing their bells drifted up to his high-up home–hiding spot–sanctuary–reprieve. The smell of smog and northern winds and rain on the way was such a contrast to the distinct smell of freshly cut grass and the wafting scents of freshly baked bread from the bakery down the street. The skyscrapers in the distance rose into the horizon and pierced the sky with their needle-like points–and Daisuke could recall the tallest building in Azumano being the clock tower, and how he could see it wherever he was in town because none of the other buildings ever obscured its great height.

It had only been a year since he left Azumano for college, but the change of scenery and the change of pace had been necessary for moving on, so he didn’t dare to dwell too much by staying home.

“Oi, Daisuke!”

Well, mostly. Despite his best efforts, one particularly stubborn piece of home had followed him out here.

He turned his head to look at his roommate, grinning innocently. “Yeah?”

And there he was, all messy black hair and bright brown eyes and dorky but confident grins. Takeshi Saehara, his best friend since he was six, had come to Tokyo with him, pursuing his dream of becoming a reporter while Daisuke tried to drown in his own of becoming an artist.

“C’mon, we’re gonna be late!” Takeshi slapped him on the back as he passed by, looking for things to toss into his bag, “What’re you doin’, man? Don’t tell me you space out like this during class too!”

“Oh, no–I was just admiring the view,” Daisuke chuckled, “It kind of makes me miss home.”

Takeshi shook his head, glancing briefly out the window too. “I’ll bet. Now c’mon, we’re losing daylight!”

“Yeah, yeah, let me get changed real fast–this shirt’s got paint all over it.” Daisuke nodded, and–still facing the window–started pulling off his shirt.

Takeshi paused, his eyes straying to his friend’s shoulder–where one of his oldest, most visible scar was–it was white and textured and embedded deep within the skin in a way that indicated it was something that took a long time to heal. He had always wondered, but never questioned, about that scar–Daisuke never talked about it, but Takeshi sometimes imagined how he got it, because even if he did know better, he would have thought someone tried to cut Daisuke’s arm off.

And when the gray shirt was pulled over the red-eyed boy’s head, Takeshi’s gaze dragged itself away to other places, trying not to stare. He glanced the notice pinned to the wall that reminded both of them of the old days and home, the doodle he had made once to cheer Daisuke up, the redhead’s still-drying painting on the easel nearby…

But still his eyes were drawn back to Daisuke, and when he caught sight of those bright red scars on the other’s back like he had so many times before, his breath caught and he couldn’t wrench his gaze away.

They were large and deep like the other, but the traces of broken skin seemed to splay outwards rather than cut deep like a blade. It was as if something angry had burst inside him, and these were the marks they left behind–glowing, almost, within the shadows between his shoulder blades; and they were jagged and heart-wrenching and shiny as if with tears or blood…

The two long, frighteningly large vertical scars on Daisuke’s back weren’t white–they were red, as if fresh and young and  _still healing_.

  
  


Takeshi stared for a long time, lost in thought. But Daisuke had always been keenly aware of his surroundings, and this moment of quiet was no exception.

As Daisuke pulled the shirt up over his head, he felt the distinctive impression of being watched. So once his head was free from the fabric, he glanced over his shoulder. “What?”

Takeshi looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words.

He had once heard that the marks left on a body told a story about how the person was shaped–like the marks in Daisuke’s sketchbook formed characters and their features, the marks on his body made up who he  _was_ , and told about how he got there.

It was a sad story, that much Takeshi knew. It was long and arduous and heartbreaking, and he may not have been there the whole time but he knew enough to put the pieces together. He had always wanted to ask–had always wanted to know, had always wished Daisuke would tell him. They were best friends, and though he knew the scars were there, he didn’t know their story regardless of if he knew  _why_  or  _how_.

And like every time he saw those scars, he had opened his mouth to try asking, but he stopped dead in his tracks at the look those red eyes gave him–still mourning, still broken, still incomplete,  _still healing_.

Just like the scars.

Maybe the story was as obvious as that after all.

So like many times before he shook his head and turned away, throwing a carefree grin over his shoulder.

“Come on, let’s go.”

And Daisuke watched as he grabbed the keys and headed out before him, his shirt still in hand and the sunlight from the window warming his back.

He thought he saw wings in his shadow, and his fist clenched.

He turned back to the sun to look away, to bask in its warmth and leave his scars behind him, hiding in the shadows where they belonged–unseen and out of mind.

The lighting in the city was different–it was brighter, the shadows were darker. And when he wasn’t looking, he wasn’t seeing it consume him.

Takeshi stood outside the door, wondering if the silence in his carefree smile only added fuel to the facade of light which Daisuke used to pretend the shadows weren’t there.


End file.
